Free Escape Out of Darkness by Anne Stuart Page B

shower.”
    “Suit yourself. Just don’t take all the hot water.” The words came out in a tired mumble as she turned and buried her face in the chenille bedspread. For a few blissful minutes all was silent—just the rustle of paper bags, the rainlike sound of the shower, the quiet little thuds and knocks as Mack undoubtedly tried to fit his large body into a small shower stall. She remembered the turquoise Jockey shorts, and she smiled in her sleep, waiting for his reaction.
    The door to the bathroom opened quietly, and Maggie considered staying facedown. But curiosity got the better of her, and she rolled over to stare at him.
    He was wearing nothing but the turquoise Jockey shorts. His blond hair was wet and hanging in tendrils around his freshly shaven face. A face that wore an expression of doubt and amusement as he met her gaze. “You’ve got to be kidding, Maggie May,” he said after a long moment.
    With great deliberation, she ran her eyes over his body. Hell, it was a great body. Long legs, flat stomach, broad, sort of bony shoulders, and not too much hair. She was tempted to ask him to turn around so she could check out his rear, but she didn’t quite have the nerve. She smiled sweetly.
    “I think you look adorable, Pulaski,” she purred.
    “Thank you for your thoughtful shopping.” He quickly divested his new khakis of their various tags and pulled them on. Maggie watched the turquoise shorts disappear with a trace of regret. “Your turn at the shower. And believe it or not, there’s plenty of hot water. Dump your clothes on the floor so I can wash ’em.”
    “You’re very domestic,” Maggie said as she stumbled toward the miniature bathroom. “Be careful out there.” She couldn’t keep the concern out of her voice.
    He paused in the act of buttoning his shirt. “Don’t worry, Maggie. Even if I prefer having you take care of me, I’ve been responsible for myself for years. I won’t let the bad guys get me.”
    “Humph,” she said, disappearing into the tiny bathroom.
    He was right, there was plenty of hot water and she took full advantage of it, letting the shower scrape the sweat and dust and blood away from her. She heard Mack leave, and the sound of the front door made her nerves tighten in sudden anxiety. He would be okay, she reassured herself. He’d taken care of himself for probably forty years.
    Besides, she was absolutely certain that no one had followed them. They were guaranteed a decent night’s sleep, and then she had to get them out of the country. With Peter’s murder, half of her sources had dried up. It was more than likely that someone at Third World Causes was linked up with their hunters—they’d been showing up far too regularly, just when she’d thought they were safe. She no longer knew whom to trust, and she wasn’t about to take chances when it wasn’t just her own life at stake.
    She also wasn’t going to worry about it right now. Tomorrow would be soon enough. Right now she was going to collapse on that singularly uncomfortable little bed and sleep the sleep of the dead.
    Peter’s blank, dead features suddenly shot into her mind, and a low, keening wail escaped from deep inside her. Quickly she shoved the wet washcloth into her mouth to try to stop the sounds of her sudden grief. And then she leaned against the rusting metal stall, beneath the steady beat of the hot shower, and wept.
    She heard the sound of the key in the lock from a distance, hours later. Pulaski, she thought, not moving. The door opened,someone stepped inside and shut it behind him. She waited with sleep-drugged patience for the dim light to flood the room, but nothing happened. The figure moved stealthily across the room. Not to the television, which would have been Mack’s first move. Not to his own bed. But straight toward hers. It couldn’t be Pulaski.
    She was suddenly alert, though she kept her body completely still, her breathing even. The small pool of light from the